Valentine
by Aicalas
Summary: Alone on Valentine's Day, as always. Has he ever had one that's meant anything at all?


It's the worst possible day in Hogwarts for a single student.  
How he hates it.  
St. Valentine's Day. Ugh.

All around him nauseatingly _together_ couples swarm the commonroom. Normally, he'd hightail it to the library, but of all people, Madam Pince is out on a _date_ with _Filch_. Just the though of it make him vaugely queasy. He could, of course, go upstairs to his dorm and try and sleep through, but Sirius and his latest...conquest? (Date? What did he call them now, anyways?) had disappeared only ten minutes ago, and he'd rather not walk in on that. James and Lily were probably in their commonroom, the head's room, and truth be told he really didn't want to see them now. Lily had finally given in to James' incessant pleading, and they too were frighteningly, enthusiastically in the Valentine's Day state of mind. Even Wormtail was with someone, probably some little Hufflepuff who'd be excited at the idea of kissing a Marauder, even if her Marauder is Peter.  
An emptiness swells, paradoxically filling him up, aching, leaving him nearly numb. The ache isn't a sharp pain, just _there_, enough to be irritating. He is all alone. He's seventeen and he's been kissed...once? Twice? Counting Danielle, three times. He can see her, over there, wrapped in Alfred Peters. He can't even muster the energy to be upset as she pulls him closer. Danielle was a nice girl, she wasn't just in it for the snogging. What exactly she saw in Alfred, he wasn't sure, but there must be something. Shouldn't he be more upset? His ex of two days is snogging some jock across the room from him. What kind of angsty teenager are you?

He sighs, and, trying, wishing to ignore the awful emptiness, looks around. Another couple catches his eye. They're younger, fourth or fifth years, and it is the most perfect thing he has seen all evening. The boy is sitting on the window ledge, the girl curled against him, head pillowed on his chest, fingers intertwined. They are not kissing, not even looking at one another. Just looking out at the stars, quiet and peaceful and oblivious to the commotion around. And suddenly, it becomes the most important thing to him not to break their bubble, not to intrude on their wonderful, perfect, complete moment. He drags his gaze away, as though they can sense it, fixing it on the fire. A powerful wave of longing crests over him, leaving him weak. _That _is what he wants, someone who is content with him, who doesn't need this commotion, this insanity on Valentine's Day. Someone who would curl up next to him, maybe whispering something, probably stealing his chocolate, but just as content as he with just the sheer presence of someone who understands him. Such a foolish thought, he contemplate, ruefully, for a seventeen year-old werewolf. Who would be stupid enough, foolhardy enough to want to enjoy the stars and the _moon _with a werewolf? Really?

He sighs, again, and wishes he could block out all the sounds around him. He closes his eyes, running a hand through his hair, the emptiness billowing, mixing with the awful, aching longing. His sits there for a long while, eyes shut, not moving as couples bump and roll into him, hurried "Sorry's," from the considerate ones, inarticulate noises from the ones-most of them, really- who don't even notice. Finally, he stands, barely noticing the couple that he has dislodged and is now in severe danger of falling to the floor. He walks upstairs, hoping against hope that Padfoot has found a broom cupboard, not a bed. He pushes open the door, holding his breath. The dorm is blissfully silent. He walks over to the window, fills his gaze with the stars bright over the Forbidden Forest. Maybe, one day, he'd have someone to watch with him, someone who didn't think he was a monster. Yet, deep down, he knows that, even if he did find such a person (which he doubts) he'll have many more Valentine's Days to plow through, filled with this emptiness and longing. That for a long time, he will be a lonely, poor werewolf and eventually, a lonely, poor, _old_ werewolf. Another seventeen more to go, although he doesn't know that, until Remus Lupin will have a Valentine's Day that actually means something.

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**A/N:** So, if you are a Wooden Words reviewer/reader, and you don't hate me right now, you should. It's been ages since I've updated. The next chapter is very close to being posted.


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